I sighed, letting the weight of the day settle onto me as I reached for the waxed bronze coin sitting on the tray beside my hospital bed. It was part of my daily ritual, something my skill demanded for upkeep, but it never got any easier. I held it between my fingers, the metallic shine catching the dim hospital light before I put it in my mouth.

  It tasted awful.

  Like copper. Blood. A metallic tinge that lingered on my tongue as it dissolved in my mouth, sinking into my throat like a bitter, bitter reminder of my own limitations. I shook my head, pushing back the urge to gag.

  I’d never get used to that taste. Not ever.

  I grimaced and glanced at my wallet. My uncle had generously given me about 31 waxing bronze coins, but now, after days of this—well, I was down to just seven. A week’s worth of "food," if you could even call it that, before malnutrition started setting in.

  The thought left me feeling… empty, but I pushed it aside for the moment.

  The medical staff had been dumbfounded when they asked why I was wasting away despite the nutritional IVs they had me hooked up to. They’d been scrambling to figure it out, running tests and asking if I had any magical abilities interfering with their care. When I finally told them, they had rushed off like I’d triggered some kind of emergency protocol.

  That’s when things started to change. They gave me a new diet, though honestly, I didn’t expect it to make much of a difference. It didn’t taste better, but it was at least palatable—which, for me, was a small victory.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle at how the nurses had been running around, looking more like ants scrambling in panic than medical professionals. The discussions on my new diet were like chaos on an anthill, each nurse debating over which food would be best for me—if that even mattered.

  Then, in a scene I could only describe as theatrics, the dietician burst in. She slammed the door open with all the authority of someone used to being the final word in a room. She silenced the entire room of nurses with a single "shut up," the sound of their heads clashing together as she knocked them into each other, all while striding confidently toward me.

  And then, with no fanfare, she leaned in slightly and asked—

  “What other dietary needs do you have?”

  The simplicity of the question made me blink for a second. What other dietary needs?

  I gave her a deadpan look.

  “Same as everyone else. Edible things.”

  The look on the nurses’ faces was priceless—eyes wide with disbelief, mouths agape. It was like they had been expecting some elaborate answer, some mystical dietary request that would explain all of my magical needs. Instead, they were faced with my simple, blunt response.

  And I couldn’t help but laugh, a quiet chuckle rising from my chest. Fractal, perched on the edge of my bed, joined in, her tiny voice ringing out in a musical trill that sounded like a happy whistle.

  The nurses exchanged glances—one looked at the other as if she had never seen a patient so blasé about their own wellbeing. And to be fair, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the way things were going either. But I wasn’t going to pretend it was anything more complicated than it needed to be.

  They were scrambling to figure out my needs. I was just trying to survive.

  I sat there, staring at the seven waxing bronze coins in my hand, the weight of them feeling heavier than it should. Seven. That was the sum of my wealth.

  It was enough to buy a few meals at the best, but not even close to what I needed. I needed three more Adjutants, and this was all I had to offer. Just these seven coins.

  I couldn't help but sigh. In the grand scheme of Marr's economy, this was nothing. The average laborer earned only 1.3 waxing bronze coins per week—a measly 130 waning bronze coins. So, in the context of the wider world, I was wealthier than most. Yet, in this moment, I felt like a beggar. I was so far beyond bankrupt it wasn’t even funny.

  The truth was, I couldn’t even begin a duty until I had the Adjutants I needed. This wasn’t just about having enough money for food—this was about survival. Without a full team, I couldn’t even attempt what the Walkers would require of me. And without Adjutants… I wouldn’t make it far.

  I was about to begin formulating my next steps when suddenly, my Gloss beeped. The sudden chime felt almost jarring—unexpected. I glanced down at the message, and what I saw made my heart skip a beat.

  Duty Assigned:

  Acquire Adjutants via Penal Conscription.

  Thirty potential Adjutants are awaiting your decision. Many are lifelong sentenced criminals. Select one to be your new teammate.

  Reward: Adjutant, Skillcube for Fractal.

  I blinked, reading the words twice. Penal Conscription? Was this some sort of administrative oversight? This went against the normal procedures I was aware of. Was this an order? Or had I been misassigned?

  I reread it, but the message didn’t change.

  Thirty potential Adjutants, many of whom were lifelong criminals, ready to be assigned to me as teammates. Criminals.

  Could I trust them? Could I even afford them? Would I need to trust them?

  A wave of uncertainty washed over me, but I pushed the thought aside. If it was an order, I had no choice.

  I turned my gaze back to the next section of the message.

  Subduty:

  Visit the Armoury and Your Personal Barracks

  The armoury contains your new insignia robe. As this is an official duty, you must be wearing the Walker’s Robe. See the armoury for details. Your personal barracks is your office when not on duty. It is where you, and your Adjutants sleep and recover. The door will contain your personal Walker insignia. Your barracks has your Walker ID. As a Walker, you are required to use your Walker ID as your passport at all border checks and gates—granting you free entry.

  Reward: Walker’s Robe, Walker’s ID, Potential Upgrades for Barracks.

  I let out a quiet, shaky breath. There it was. My first real assignment. I wasn’t just an aspirant anymore—I was being thrust into the world of the Walkers. A Walker’s robe. A Walker’s ID. Upgrades. The weight of it hit me in a way that felt far too real, too close.

  I ran a hand over my face, still unsure what to make of the crimson robe, the ID that would tie me to the state in ways I wasn’t prepared for. But the reward was clear: I was getting a team, however unconventional it might be. And that was worth something. It had to be.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  But now… what about these criminal Adjutants? How much was I willing to sacrifice to get what I needed? Would I survive long enough to matter?

  Seven coins.

  One team.

  Hundreds of problems.

  The first one? Walking.

  It seemed like an obvious task, but walking was the first duty of a Walker—getting from point A to point B, regardless of obstacles. In this case, those obstacles included my injuries and the sheer size of the complex. Each step felt like it dragged me further from the person I was before, but that was the reality of it now. The weight of the cane beneath my hand, the tightness in my left ribs—I could feel it with every step I took.

  I was still slow, slower than I should be for someone of my caliber. But the medical staff had cleared me for duty. I had to move, and move I would.

  Cordelia walked at my side, always within reach, her presence a quiet constant. Her movements were fluid and almost effortless compared to mine, but that was to be expected. She had the mental stamina and focus of someone who had lived through countless tests and trials.

  Her steps barely made a sound as she moved beside me, but I could feel something around us—a psychic field—stretching around the both of us. Fractal was near, too, her delicate form perched lightly on my shoulder, but there was something else here, a subtle protection, an extension of Cordelia’s influence.

  I raised an eyebrow at her, feeling the psychic pressure subtly enclosing us. “What’s this?” I asked, my voice low, but tinged with curiosity.

  She glanced over, her usual calm demeanor not shifting in the slightest.

  “My bias field.” She said simply, nodding at me. “Think of it like the trick I had you do with concealing your thoughts. This is me expanding it out.”

  I watched her, trying to make sense of the idea. “So, you're blocking out everything?”

  She nodded, and I could feel the pressure of her explanation through her voice.

  “Even your loud thoughts shouldn’t bleed past the barrier. Especially because it’s my image being projected.”

  I gave her a curious glance. “Which is?”

  There was a flicker in her expression, like something almost human slipped past the stoic mask she wore. She hesitated for just a second before responding, her voice quieter than usual.

  “Rude. Never ask that question to anyone you don’t trust.”

  I didn’t say anything, just watching her carefully. Her words felt like an unspoken rule of trust. Cordelia had a way of holding back pieces of herself, even from me. The unspoken understanding that not all things needed to be shared unless they were truly necessary.

  She continued, though, not leaving me in suspense.

  “While I helped formulate your infant one,” she began, her voice more casual now, “you’ll need a better one. Against someone stronger than I am.”

  That caught my attention.

  “Someone stronger?”

  She shrugged. “This kind of psychic manipulation is about layers. The more layers you have, the harder it is to break through. Eventually, you’ll need a stronger field.”

  I could feel her mental strength in the subtle pulse of energy around her, but there was something else there—a kind of calculated distance. Her bias field wasn’t just a defensive measure; it was a deliberate choice to guard her core, to keep something hidden that I couldn’t touch or pry into.

  “To answer your question,” she said, her eyes meeting mine as if reading my thoughts, “my image? It’s a bouquet of flowers—each wilting. All the petals fall like fresh snow, only to blossom and restart.”

  I blinked, processing the symbolism of her explanation. The image she had crafted was as fragile and transient as the snowflakes themselves. But also regenerative, like something caught in an endless cycle of decay and renewal.

  I didn’t comment immediately, the weight of her words hanging between us. There was a lot more to her than I could understand—and I wasn’t sure if I would ever fully be able to.

  But for now, I focused on the road ahead. We had work to do, and though every step was heavy with the weight of the unknown, I knew that with Cordelia's field surrounding me and Fractal's presence, we’d get through it. Together.

  We reached the armoury first, the thick doors creaking open as we entered. The scent of polished metal and the faintest trace of old leather filled the air, blending with the soft hum of machinery in the background. My eyes instinctively scanned the room, taking in the vast array of weapons, armor, and tools neatly displayed, but there was only one thing that truly caught my attention.

  The robe.

  It was waiting for me, folded neatly in a corner, the fabric black as night, adorned with golden accents that gleamed in the soft lighting. My insignia was emblazoned with silver and gold thread, each detail a masterpiece in its own right. As I slipped it on, the fabric clung to my frame perfectly—tailored to my height, my body. Every inch of it felt like it was made just for me, as if it was designed by someone who knew exactly what I needed.

  The insignia on the sleeves and back was nothing short of breathtaking. Hundreds of small, intricate books filled the space, woven into the fabric as though they were part of the very structure of the robe. Each book seemed to tell a story, but it wasn’t static—it was alive. A quill was stitched onto the fabric, its tip hovering just above one of the pages, as if it had just written something. The completed page spilled over with an image—a flock of origami birds, rising from the page as though taking flight into the air.

  But what caught my attention the most, the centerpiece of the insignia, was a single golden coin. It gleamed against the backdrop of books, pierced through by a single arrow, the golden fluid of the coin spilling out and dripping into the inkwell of the quill, where it seemed to blend with the ink as if they were meant to mix. The image was a symphony of elegance—a union of creation, words, and power.

  I took a deep breath, my fingers brushing against the robe, the material feeling softer than anything I had ever worn. Softer than Cordelia’s skin, than any bed, than any fabric I had ever known. It felt amazing—like it had always belonged to me. The weight of it, the symbolism behind it, everything about this robe screamed who I was meant to be.

  I stood for a moment, letting the weight of the robe settle around me, feeling like a Walker in the truest sense for the first time. The insignia on my back felt like a living, breathing testament to my journey—an Arte made manifest in cloth. It was a symbol of both my past and my future, the potential of what was yet to come woven into its very fibers.

  I looked to Cordelia, who was standing nearby, watching me with an unreadable expression.

  She raised an eyebrow, and for the briefest moment, I could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

  "Well?" she asked, her voice lighter than usual. "How do you feel?"

  I looked down at myself again, then back up at her.

  "I wouldn’t say ready. But I feel readier."

  The words left my mouth, but even as I spoke them, I wasn’t entirely sure I believed them. Readiness wasn’t just about wearing the robe or accepting the title—it was about living it, about walking the path, one step at a time.

  And right now, that next step led me to my barracks.

  Or rather, my squad’s barracks.

  The Zulu building was a towering structure, one of many in the vast Walker complex, and my assigned room was located on the third floor. Officially, it was designated Z-3191—the 191st “room” of the building, on the third floor of Zulu.

  I say "room," but the word was almost insulting for what it actually was.

  This wasn’t some cramped dormitory or a simple quarters like I had expected. No. It was a full luxury suite.

  The moment I stepped inside, I could barely process what I was looking at.

  A seven-bedroom, four-bathroom suite. A full kitchen, a mounted Gloss, and three personal hookup displays. Every piece of furniture was sleek, high-quality, and untouched. The lighting was soft and adjustable, the air perfectly regulated, the entire space exuding comfort, wealth, and prestige.

  I ran a hand over the smooth, polished counter of the kitchen island, still trying to wrap my head around it.

  This was mine?

  This was ours?

  I turned to Cordelia, utterly bewildered.

  "Is this… the norm?"

  She glanced around, almost bored with the grandeur of it all, before shaking her head.

  “Only when you are rated Transcendent rank.”

  I froze mid-step.

  Transcendent rank.

  That wasn’t just high. That wasn’t even legendary. That was a level of recognition reserved for those who were considered walking cataclysms.

  "This," Cordelia continued, "is the luxury accommodations expected of a visiting Dominus."

  My breath hitched.

  I was being treated like a Dominus.

  Me.

  A sixteen-year-old aspirant, who had barely begun his journey, who had just taken his first true steps as a Walker, was being housed in luxury fit for a literal god-ruler.

  The realization crashed over me like a tidal wave.

  I barely had time to process it before another thought—a much worse thought—hit me.

  My mother is going to be pissed.